The Last Word War
by Sweet September Storm
Summary: "It was within the scrolls of the War that I read of the Great Abomination, the nameless, invisible Thing that had swallowed entire civilizations." A tale of love, loss and memory, inspired by Stephen Vincent Benét's "By the Waters of Babylon."


**The Last Word War**

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><p>Today I choose for the first time a word to mark my skin, for today is my sixteenth birthday and I am now a woman.<p>

Fifteen words tattooed along the lines of my face tell of the hopes for my life to come. I know them all by heart. First was the birth-word, the name that my father and mother gave me when I had neither words nor reason. It is written in soot and sacred blue across my brow: _INK._

Second was the gift of my father. It was a word he had traveled far to learn. _Wisdom._ Third was my mother's gift. I am told that she searched long and hard for a word for me. _Grace._

My fourth year was the first year that I could remember the marking. Some children still whined as shriveled old Sage and her daughter Sun pricked them with their needles of bone, but I was quiet. Together my parents had chosen my fourth-word. I watched as Sage traced the letters over the wrist of my right hand: _Courage._

The fifth year marking was a special year, for it was then that Memory came and watched our birthday rites. Memory was old even then. Her skin like leathery parchment was filled with the spidery words of many decades. Her hair was as white and straight as Sage's bone needle. Her eyes were warm embers that licked over us children with smoldering curiosity.

Those eyes turned to me most of all. When the time came for my parents to give Sage their chosen word, Memory intervened. They stood in silence as she whispered to Sage. Then Sage began her work. Again I watched the shape of the letters form beneath Sage's hands. When she had finished, Memory looked down at me and smiled. "Child, observe the mark on your hand. Do you know what it means?"

I met her gaze without fear and nodded.

She frowned gently at my impertinence. "It is a great boast, child, to claim knowledge of written things."

"Lady Memory," said I, "the shape of these letters brings meaning to me. I do not ask for it."

"And what meaning does it bring?"

"_Kuh-now-le-gee._"

Then Memory laughed. "Indeed, the child has been blessed with knowledge! The shape of letters brings meaning to her without study; not one in five hundred little ones could tell me this." She looked around the crowd that had gathered. "Hear you, people! I, Memory the Eighth of the People of the Valley, now take this child as my apprentice. When I have passed into the next world she shall be your Memory, the reader of words."

So it was that I became the young Memory.

When Memory first took me to the Great Ruins at age seven, I was not afraid as the other children were. They hung back at the edges of the forest to watch us. Their eyes grew wide as we picked our way through the broken streets to the Temple. I remembered one pair of eyes that watched longest. It was the boy Sparrow, bird hunter and the bearer of ten fine words.

I wondered as I followed Memory across the threshold of the Temple why he watched us so. Did he think I was unworthy to enter? Did he think my markings were unsuited to me, and would burn my flesh as I walked closer to the sacred place? I felt his eyes on me even as we passed into the Treasury. And I smiled because I had entered without fear. My parents had foreseen it: I had courage.

The Temple itself was in ruins, but our People had uncovered a great wonder at its heart, buried for generations beneath the fallen walls of the Temple. It was a round room without windows. Where the windows would have been, there were instead rows upon rows of precious tomes. Words by the thousands. Words of power and beauty, words of learning and art, words of glory and despair. And words telling of the evil of our deep past.

It was in this Treasury that I was taken by Memory to be trained. There in that dusty sanctuary I learned the patterns of unknown letters, of great and powerful words that had long been forgotten by my people, and of the legends of the Elder people.

It was there that meaning came to me, deep meaning and fierce meaning and meaning I would always remember, for Memory gave to me the scrolls of what we call the Last Word War. It was the War in which words were destroyed. I read of the War until I wanted to read no more. I read until it seemed meaning would be obliterated in the fires that had consumed the Elder knowledge so long ago.

For it was within the scrolls of the War that I read of the Great Abomination, the nameless, invisible Thing that had swallowed entire civilizations. It was once the guardian of all thought, before its fall and the scattering of humanity. The nameless Thing collapsed in the wake of the Final War, taking all knowledge with it. The Elder people were blind, witless, fractured without the Thing. Their knowledge, their history, their very memories had been entrusted to it, and it was no more. They were like brutes, mad and cruel without the written word. Fires followed the War, evil fires that poisoned the ground and killed the people who had not fled.

That was the end of the Elder world.

No record was kept of those years after the Last Word War, for the nameless Thing was the memory of the people. When it fell, they did not know how to remember themselves. They could not read, for there were no scrolls, and they could not write, for there was no one to teach them. They became the Wordless. Those were the dark decades, the long years that passed without knowledge, without thought, without memory.

It was my people, the People of the Valley, who ended the dark. We were the first to brave the Great Ruins and uncover those few precious scrolls that had survived the War. The great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandsire of our Chieftain entrusted the sacred site the first Memory. She labored long and alone within the room of written things, striving to unlock the secret of letters and ancient words.

Memory the First passed into the next world before she could accomplish her task, but she trained up a young man to follow her path, and he was Memory the Second. I am Memory the Ninth. We know much more now, and our People are strong and prosperous. All the Chieftains of the surrounding tribes honor us for the markings we make upon ourselves. They are a sign to all that, while others may let words slip from their memory, we do not forget.

~O~

By the time the sun sets today, I will have a new word written across my brow. The sixteenth-word, the word of my choosing. I am a woman now, and it is my right. Memory will be there, and the Chieftain, and my mother and father. Others will watch too, for I am their Memory and they will one day entrust their own stories to my keeping.

It is not yet noon. The sun warms me like a cloak, though I wear only my spring tunic and the sacred blue sash. Little Ash, the youngest of the Chieftain's daughters, wove me a circlet of clover and violets this morning, and her sister Wren braided it like a crown atop my head.

I finger it now as I sit at the edge of the Great Ruins. Today is special, for I can choose what I want to do. The flowers of my circlet have wilted in the sun, but I do not mind. Without clouds, without wind, under an unblemished sky, the Ruins look peaceful. Beautiful, even. They speak in broken voices about the ills of the past, but I know that within them lives hope for the future.

A leaf rustles; someone is behind me. I turn. The boy—no, the young man—Sparrow has followed me. He bows but makes no excuse for disturbing my solitude.

"Good morning, Ink," he says.

"Good morning, Sparrow" I answer, but do not bow.

He sits beside me and points to the sacred place. "Have you traveled far into the Ruins?"

I shake my head. "Memory says it is dangerous."

Sparrow laughs at that, and I find that I am not offended. Instead of turning away, I look at him. I do than look. I study him like the scrolls Memory puts before me daily to memorize. Since the day he watched me first enter the Ruins, I see that he has added nine more words. Three he has chosen himself. I see them written in black across his forehead and chest. Two speak of bravery and strength, but the third makes me frown.

"What is _albatross_?" The word is unfamiliar, even to me.

"I think it is a bird. But I do not know for sure."

"Why did you choose it, then?"

"It was in a tale. Long ago, I heard Memory tell a tale of the great salt water, and of the lands across it. There was an albatross in the tale. I have dreamed of it ever since."

"Have you ever seen the sea, Sparrow?" I ask, knowing that he has not. Save for the bands of deer hunters that pursue the herds in the spring and autumn, no one has left the Valley in many years.

"No. But I have seen that and more in the words of Memory. Her words I cannot forget. That is why she is great." He looks at me, and I see that his eyes are blue, the clear blue of a rain-washed sky. "You will also be great."

Suddenly I am glad he has followed me today.

"Will you walk with me, Ink?" he asks.

"Where?"

"Among the Ruins."

I am surprised. "Why?"

"Because you are here, and I am here, and they are here."

I do not say no. He takes my hand, and we walk. The path of strange black stone that softens in the sun is cracked and overgrown. Trees hang over the Ruins, shading their desolation with new life. I know the way to the Temple, but Sparrow has no wish to enter. It is a place of deep sorrow to our People, even though it has given us great knowledge. It is still a reminder of how much we have lost.

Instead, we find ourselves at the far edge of the Ruins, close to the River. There is less rubble piled here, and some structures still stand, strengthened over the centuries by the vines that have grown up to cover the walls. I know it is dangerous, but Sparrow has heard the meaning of the fourth-word I bear on my wrist, and suddenly I feel I must show him its truth.

Releasing his hand, I push aside the plants that conceal the empty doorway of a nearby Ruin. "Let us see what hides here, Sparrow," I say, and he smiles. We enter.

Grass grows straggling underfoot, and moss muffles our steps. Spiders have spun and abandoned their webs in the corners, and there are signs of forest creatures everywhere. The air is close and warm. Sparrow takes his place at my side and reaches for my hand again. I give it to him. We stand for a long time, looking around at the ancient place. Then, when there is no more to see, we look at each other. Our free hands meet, and still we look at each other.

"Ink, you are brave and wise. Memory the Ninth or not, I wish to be your husband," Sparrow says after taking many breaths.

I smile. It is not forbidden for Memory to marry. "I am a woman today," I tell him. "I may choose my own word."

He smiles too, for he knows what I mean. Our People have long bound themselves with words, as is fitting for those who remember. My mother and father were joined at Midwinter many years ago, when they chose to Mark their left hands with each other's name instead of a word of their own finding.

"And have you decided what it will be?" he asks.

I know what I will answer him, but I do not. Not yet, for there is a sound from deeper in the Ruin. We are startled, and he drops my hand. When nothing comes, Sparrow looks at me.

"Let us be brave again," he says, taking my hand once more. I follow him.

There is another room beyond a crumbling wall, and another beyond that. Windows have shattered here, and the sun and sound of water come to us through the openings. We find the source of the sound hopping on the ground in confusion. It is a bird, a tiny marten-bird that has flown through the broken window and now unable to escape. Sparrow chuckles and stoops to gather it into his hands, cradling it with great care as it cries in terror.

"Are you feeling courageous too, little cousin?" he asks, straightening to show me the bird.

But I do not laugh, do not look. For I have seen something in the corner of the Ruin that fills my heart with a fear I cannot understand. It is vine covered and dust has colored it deep gray, but age cannot hide its shape—a wide, flat box set atop a pedestal. Thin tendrils like veins snake from the box to the wall, where they disappear. Silent, I point. Sparrow raises his head and the light goes at once out of his eyes.

"What is it?" he whispers. I can hear he is afraid, like me. His hands relax and the marten-bird hops from his hold, fluttering towards the door and to freedom.

"It is a shrine to the Great Abomination, young man," says a strong voice from behind us. We jump, but it is only Memory. She has followed us from the Temple without a sound.

I might have been angered at her presence, but with the thing in the corner so near I am suddenly glad she is here.

"A shrine?" Sparrow repeats.

Memory comes forward as we shrink back. She does not take her eyes from the thing. "The Elder people fed their words, their tales and their histories to shrines such as these. It was from these shrines that the nameless Thing took their knowledge. When the Thing fell at the end of the Last Word War, it devoured everything the Elder people had entrusted to it. All was destroyed. So many generations—and not even their stories remain." She bows her head and heaves a sigh, a sigh as deep and as bitter as death-drums. "In truth, they were lost long before the Last War. They became the Wordless when they were foolish enough to trust the thing they had made."

She ceases, and there is only silence and the distant chirping of the marten-bird. Sparrow looks as me, and I take his arm.

At last Memory raises her head and turns to us. "It is not forbidden to know this, nor to see the shrine of the Great Abomination. But it is a heavy thing, this knowledge. You both see what has become of this place because of that thing in the corner."

Together, we nod.

Memory comes closer and puts a hand to my face. "Then you know why you must never forget."

"Yes, Memory," I say, and bow my head. She knows what Sparrow wants and she does not like it. The flowers slip onto my forehead and my hand falls from Sparrow's arm.

"Yet…"

Memory gently lifts the circlet back into place and tilts my chin upward.

"It is good to love. And two may remember better than one." Her wrinkled lips purse. "Perhaps the time has now come for the People of the Valley to have _Memories_."

I raise my eyes and meet hers. She smiles and I see joy. But she turns to Sparrow and speaks sternly. "The words you have chosen as your year-marks, young man—where did you find them?"

Sparrow bowed his head. "I heard them, Lady Memory."

"From where?"

"From you."

Memory is truly surprised. Her voice grows less stern "From me?"

"Your stories at the Midsummer fires, Lady. I may not know how to decipher the written word, but like you, I can remember."

I see that Memory is pleased with his answer. And so am I.

"That is good," she says. "For at dusk tonight, Ink will receive her sixteenth-word, the first word of her choosing." She turns to me. "Have you made your decision, Ink?"

My hand finds Sparrow's once again.

"I have."

"Will you speak it now, or will you wait?"

It is common among our People for those coming-of-age to speak their first chosen word to Sage alone. But I do not wait. For it is not only her question that I am answering.

"I will speak it now."

"And what have you chosen?"

I smile.

"Sparrow."


End file.
